


your kingdom as great

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Hermione Granger, F/M, Role Reversal, dark lady hermione (mind)fucks tom riddle, that's it that's the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9532364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He'd been promised he would live forever.





	1. Chapter 1

They put him in a cell.

As far as prisons went, his was nothing to sneer at – clean and dry, if dreadfully small, adequately lit by two yellow-orange globes glowing softly against the wall. There was no window, of course, and the air was stale but clean, just the tiniest hint of the bad smell so characteristic of forgotten places and airless closets, a smell that had been with him for a good part of his childhood.

It scared Tom how quickly he’d recognized it.

If hard pressed, he would perhaps have admitted that his living conditions for the foreseeable future were something of an improvement over some of the places he’d had to suffer through, and certainly a great deal better than the possible alternative. After all he had read about Azkaban, extensively; seen for himself the dungeons in the Malfoy Manor, damp and dirty and impossibly cold.

This room had a cot that looked almost like a bed, with a drab blanket thrown haphazardly on it – it was a washed-out brown and probably older than he was, but it looked warm enough. He even had a bedside table, tall and sturdy and a complete eyesore, and Tom wondered if the thing had been put in his room out of carelessness or subtle mockery. In all his life he’d never had much in the way of material possessions and now, as a prisoner with only the clothes on his back, he could hardly afford to fill two drawers.

He lay down on the bed because there was nothing else to do, hands behind his head and eyes ahead of him, unblinkingly. Everything was carpeted, like in some Muggle motel – even the walls up to his head – all in brown, old and faded. The ceiling was a dirty white; the door, the only thing of notice in the entire room, had clearly just been put there, the metal almost shining. There were runic incantations carved all over it, and Tom doubted he would be able to break through it even if they’d left him his wand.

It was, to put it plainly, the dullest fucking room Tom Riddle had ever seen.

He did it best to hate it. They should have at least had the good grace to throw him into a real prison, not this pathetic excuse for a cage, boring and confining and utterly maddening, some confusing cross between insult and privilege. He wondered if it had been done on purpose, to make him feel _grateful_ he didn’t have it worse – and he could feel it working, could hear that traitorous voice in his thoughts, whispering that perhaps he should count himself lucky.

Every time it started he stopped it resolutely, slammed down on that shameful part of his mind and filled it with memories of everything he should have had – all the things he almost had, how he came close enough to touch before it was taken from him. He hated that voice, an unwelcome reminder of the pitiful boy he had been, the person he didn’t want to be ever again. It was supposed to be different, from now on.

They had promised he would life forever.                                                                                      

Earlier that morning, he’d been told he would be tried in front of the Wizengamot in a week’s time; after that, likely put to death. He had brought it on himself, they told him. After all, he’d dared to take up arms against the Lady, sinned of wrath and envy and pride, rebelled and lost.

Now he was fallen.

Time in his cell was… odd. At times it went by slowly, when he was lying on his bed trying to calm down, to fall asleep – and then suddenly he would be hit by the crushing realization that _he would die soon_ , and that was when he fell on his knees in a panicked gasp, scratching at his throat and trying to breathe.

He didn’t have a watch, of course, nor did he have any other way of keeping track of the passage of time. Food would appear on his table at irregular intervals, bread and vegetables and boiled eggs, sometimes even meat; everything had already been cut, and was served on a paper plate with a paper cup for him to drink from. He ate with his hands.

At times the food wouldn’t magically appear – the door would open, as it’d done three times so far, and someone would walk him and bring him a platter, watching him eat with a silent unnerving stare. The second time the person on the other side of the door had been a boy he had known in Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw Quidditch player two years above him. Tom didn’t try to engage in conversation – he suspected he wouldn’t get far and, besides, he didn’t want anyone else to remind him that he was supposed to die.

He got a basin full of water – warm water, even – and some soap to wash himself with, and it would disappear and reappear again at the strangest times. He got a bucket to piss in, and he’d never felt more debased as he did when he started to feel _glad_ that the thing was actually there. The basin was stone, dark and heavy, for the same reason that he had a bucket made of wood instead of a chamber pot he could throw to the floor and collect splinters from. It would not do for Tom Riddle to kill himself before the Lady had decreed that such was her will – or, more realistically, he was not allowed anything that could be made into a weapon. It seemed sensible. He hated it.

The lights on the wall never went out. They glowed a soft orange that made his eyes water and his head ache, be it day or night, and soon it became impossible to tell if he’d been imprisoned two days, or six, or a lifetime. He was tired, he was weak, he slept a lot and stared at the ceiling and imagined how his blood would look splattered against the paint.

One day, whenever that was, he woke up to a woman sitting calmly in the middle of the room, holding a book on her lap and watching him through long dark lashes.

“Well,” she said, when she noticed him gaping. “This is disappointing.”

It was as through a jolt of lighting had passed through his body; he sat up straight, heartbeat racing in his throat. “It’s you.”

She closed her book and titled her head, licking her lips as she spoke. “Indeed,” she said. “I have to admit, I expected better from Slytherin House’s best and brightest. As I said. Disappointing.”

But Tom had been stared down worse than that by Rodolphus Lestrange and thrived because of it, and certainly he wasn’t going to forget himself now of all times. He was dead anyways, he reminded himself, willing his hand to stop shaking. He could say whatever he wanted.

“In retrospect,” he admitted. “That wasn’t the smartest observation I could have made there. I must apologize. I was… drowsy.”

The Lady smiled, giving him a long slow nod. “That’s better,” she acknowledged. “Now, we’ve never been formally introduced, I am afraid. You are Tom Riddle.” It wasn’t a question. “Abraxas’s pet half-blood.”

“You seem to have it all figured out,” Tom said, because he’d long ago learned that it was better to say something and state the obvious than to not speak at all and look weak.

“I do.” She smiled again. Her teeth were very white, her eyes shimmering. “The Malfoys aren’t dead,”  her tongue darted out of her mouth to trail along her upper lip. “Yet.”

That surprised him. As soon as he’d opened her eyes and saw her sitting mere feet away from him, the loathed and despised centre of stories and nightmares, the self-styled Lady he’d been taught to think of as ‘that mudblood woman’, the one he’d been groomed to fight and defeat and utterly _destroy_ – as soon as he saw her, tranquil and smiling, he thought she’d come to gloat. She was notorious for it, it was said; as ruthless and spiteful as she was cunning.

“And what about me?” Tom asked, because the Malfoys had given him a life and a place when he’d had none, but he did not want– could not– “Why am I not dead yet?”

“Oh, well,” she made an airy sort of gesture with her right hand, left still holding that book. “It depends.”

It was a bait, dangling mere inches from his face. Like a pet being handed a treat, teased with it. Just a game.

He felt a surge of anger towards this woman – _that mudblood woman_ – who’d wrecked and burned his entire _life_ , and was now dancing joyously on the ashes. “On what?” he asked.

She stood up, smoothing the creases from her blouse, and made her chair disappear with a snap of her fingers. “On how well you’ll do,” she said. “I am told you are very smart.”

Tom shrugged. He’d never been much for modesty, false or not. “That is true.”                           

She laughed – actually laughed, a high thrilling sound with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. “My, Tom.” She walked up to him, uncomfortably close. Her tights brushed against the flimsy mattress of his bed and she brought a hand forward, fingers curling to trace his cheekbone. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to stay still. Her touch was surprisingly light, unlike any others he’d ever received. In the darkness, it was almost pleasant.

“You’re going to be a real delight.” He felt her touch his cheek, cool and feather-light, then his chin. Her thumb pressed against the underside of his jaw. “I can tell.”

And then she was gone, and he felt a burst of wind against his skin and opened his eyes to an empty room; and after he’d fallen asleep and woken up all over again, he thought that maybe it had been all a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time she came to visit him she walked in from the door, passing through the thick metal as though it was only an illusion. Tom winced; she met his eyes with a level look of her own.

“Are we really doing this again?” she asked.

Tom took a deep breath, balling his hands into fists. She made him nervous, and he’d found he hated his reaction to her more than he did the woman herself. It was not fair that she had such power over him, he thought. She wasn’t _allowed_ to.

He refused to fear her.

The Lady walked slowly to the centre of the room in deliberate, smooth strides. “You should stand up,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Tom’s lack of a response. She sighed. “Dreadful manners. I should have expected that, considering the company you’ve been keeping.”

Tom wondered if she was trying to rile him up. He kept his eyes fixed somewhere just right of her head, focusing on keeping his back straight and his breathing even, but still didn’t miss her little amused snort.

“It’s customary to stand up when one of your betters walks into a room,” the Lady said, matter-of-factly, and immediately Tom was flung away from his mattress and into the air, barely managing to put one bended arm between his face and the floor.

“Now, that’s an improvement,” she said. Tom shakenly raised himself to his feet, noticing how very close he was to her now.

“Do you want to do that again? We do have all day,” her voice was practiced boredom, her smile almost sweet. “You aren’t going anywhere, we both know that.”

Tom remained where he was. “I’m fine,” he told her. “Thank you.”

She chuckled. It was the most surreal sound he’d even heard. “You are adorable, Tom Riddle,” she said. “Just for that, I’ll grant you a little gift.”

She waved her hand about and conjured an armchair, heavy and stuffed and far too big for her slight frame, and sat on it with her legs bent under her body, curling up over the red cushion in a way that reminded him oddly of a cat. He followed her movements with narrowed eyes – she must have a wand on her person, somewhere, he could overpower her if he only could figure out _where_ it was…

“I’ll give you ten minutes of absolute sincerity”, she said. “You can ask questions. I will not lie to you.”

He took a step back, head held high. “How do I kill you?”

She smiled. “You can’t.”

Tom Riddle had never hated anyone in his life more than he hated this woman, he decided then. Not his pathetic scum of a father, not any of the equally worthless men and women who’d traded him around for a quick handout, too inept to even recognize how inferior they were to the one they were spurning. All of them were nothing; ants only fit for being despised. No, it was that woman – the filthy creature in front of him that deserved all of his hatred.

“If you were to die,” he began carefully, not bothering to hide his snarl. “What is the circumstance of events that would have caused your death?”

“Oh, very well.” She threw her head back. “I’ll humour you on that. If you want me dead, you should first try to find out which of the many possible avenues to immortality I have pursued, and how to possibly break whatever incantation is that I have used. And after all of that, you’ll have to somehow find you in a position to have a wand pointed at me.”

The Lady smiled. “And you never will. My people are very loyal.”

The plan had never been to kill her, of course. Too much uncertainty, too many possibilities it’d go wrong – but there were many and many ways to crush an immortal, although none were as quick and clean as the Killing Curse. Once he’d heard it suggested that they should hack her to pieces. They’d all found the idea to have some merit; but she had attacked soon after that, when they still hadn’t been ready.

Tom Riddle no longer cared about any of it. There was no plan anymore. He just wanted her _gone_.

“Do you have a Horcrux?” he asked. “Or more than one?” He’d been looking into that himself, planned on having at least one made before going to war. He knew how to create one, and he knew how to destroy it.

“You’ve done your research, haven’t you?” She shifted in her chair, straightened her legs up from under her body and crossed them at the ankles, leaning forward. She was wearing Muggle trousers, dark and tight; he decided they made her look like a tramp. “I’m not going to answer that. But I will tell you this – if I truly had made a Horcrux, you could never get your hands on it, you understand me? _Never_.”

The last word came out in a whisper, almost a hiss. He forced himself to smile. “That’s what they all say.”

“Mmh.” The Lady nodded. “Say I made one. You’ll have to search all of my properties to find it, and invariably end up somewhere heavy guarded – let’s say by dragons, or Inferi, or Dementors. Ever met a Dementor, Tom?” He didn’t answer, and she went on. “And, of course, several layers of wards. Blood magic, elemental magic, necromancer; all sort of sorcery you wish you could learn how to match, much less hope to _defeat_.”

Her voice was very low; she made her promises of death sound enticing. He wished, just for a moment, that she had been born someone he could respect.

“And after that…” she continued. “Well, who knows? Perhaps a poison or some dark curse, and a casket that theoretically only I can open. And inside it, a piece of parchment.” She straightened up against the back of her chair, and _winked_ at him. “I’m thinking it will read something among the lines of, “Joke’s on  you, fucker”, or something like that. And then you might find out that I put my soul into a pebble I tossed in a riverbed. Of course, by then you’ll be dead.”

He blinked, and it was as though he were waking up from a dream. All he could see was her face, cruel and triumphant, beautiful in the way only a thunderstorm could be.

“You’re running out of time, Tom,” she said. “You’ve got… barely over a minute left.”

“What’s your name?” he blurted out, faster than he could thing. Why on earth had he asked that?

She seemed as taken aback as he was. Her eyes widened one barest fraction before she could control herself, and one of her hands was almost halfway up to her face before she masked it as a gesture to brush one leg of her immaculately-pressed trousers.

“You are more interesting than I gave you credit for,” she said, eventually. And then. “My name’s Hermione.”

 _Hermione_. The word rolled out of her lips with a certain hesitancy, as if she wasn’t accustomed to it – and she probably was not; after all, was there anyone alive who remembered it? Tom found it surprisingly pleasant. Somehow he’d expected something trite and bland and irredeemably Muggle – Mary or Kathy or some such sort; but this could very well pass as a true witch’s name, old and unique and peculiar sounding.

Once again, he found himself wishing she’d been a more suitable woman.

“Hermione,” he repeated, trying it out. “Shakespeare, right?”

“You’re not to speak that name again,” she informed him serenely. “Unless I give you permission to use it, and I don’t particularly fancy having fanatical bigots intent on killing me use my given name. I mean it, Tom Riddle. I will _hurt_ you.” He didn’t believe for a moment that she wouldn’t.

And then. “Not Shakespeare. It’s from a poem my mother liked, but it’s curious that you would know who that is. How very Muggle of you.”

He stared at her, and said nothing.

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” she continued, clearly perfectly comfortable carrying a conversation with him completely on her own. “How much of yourself you have erased trying to fit in. How much of your identity you’ve just let to rot in a corner because no one would you accept you otherwise…” 

He forced himself to stand in place, fists closed, hands trembling. He closed his eyes and let her talk about his life as if she knew anything about it, as if she had any right to tell him what to do. He breathed in and waited and reminded himself that a single mudblood sprouting nonsense, however offensive it might be, was nothing compared to the utter agony of the Cruciatus curse.

“Did you enjoy prancing about with your aristocratic chums, knowing you’d never quite fit in? Having to prove yourself again and again every minute of every day, does it even get tiring?”

She seemed to take pleasure by his ill-concealed discomfort, every word another cut of the blade. “And, oh – the way you mocked those just like you merely for existing – and for what, for people who wouldn’t care if you lived or died as long as you could finish your mission before checking out?”

“Shut up,” he spat out, barely coherent. “Shut the fuck up. Just – just stop.”

“You just gave yourself away again,” she pointed out, gleefully – the bloody woman was fucking having fun. “Purebloods don’t swear, you know.” He would gorge her _eyes_ out before killing her, he decided there and then. He would make her cry out in pain, and he would enjoy it.

“Or well, I suppose you do know. You have spent half your life _parroting them_ –”

“STOP!”

He’d screamed loud enough that his throat hurt when he spoke again. “Stop,” he told her, opening his eyes and glancing down at the insipid carpeted floor. “Bloody  stop. You have no f– You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tom.” She sounded impossibly sweet, impossibly close. He raised his head with a jolt, saw her face barely inches away from his. “Why should I stop?”

“What –” 

“I said,” she repeated. “Why should I stop? You’re obviously upset. You want me to stop telling you things that make you uncomfortable. But why should I?”

Tom didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Nothing he could say would make a difference.

“You are my _prisoner_ ,” the Lady said. “I am under no obligation of doing anything you require. Whatever I do with you, it is because I want it.”

Her eyes were a very dark brown, big and inscrutable. “Do you understand?” she asked.

Tom looked at her; she was so close. There were almost no lines on her face, but she had a scar on her chin, small and almost completely faded, like she’d been cut with something sharp. He wondered if it’d hurt.

“Tom,” she called. She moved as if to touch him and he almost winced, and he was sure she must have noticed. “I said, do you understand?”

He gave a jerky nod.

“That’s good,” she said – almost purred, really, holding his gaze with something very close to satisfaction. She looked at him and he felt dirty, sullied because he’d done what she wanted, played right into her hand.

“You’ll remember this lesson the next time I see you,” the Lady told him; and it wasn’t a question. He shivered and she smirked and, just like that, she was gone again.


	3. Chapter 3

After they’d put him inside that room and before locking the door on their way out, Tom’s minders had been very clear that he would find himself tried and condemned in a matter of days.

That had been a while ago. He had been scared and frustrated; now he was antsy, skittish, and nearly out of his mind with worry. After all, it was one thing to know his life would end eventually, some hazy end he hoped to put off for as long as possible, but it was so much scarier to realize that he could die at any given moment, with no forewarning and now means to defend himself.

They were coming into his cell to check on him more often than they had at the beginning, he was sure of it. Tom chided himself for not keeping tracks of it earlier – he had been still under shock, and mad with anger; but it was still no excuse – and now he’d started applying himself to working out the method behind the inconsistencies.

At the beginning, before _She_ came to visit him for the first time, he’d been visited thrice by three different guards– he had even wondered, briefly, if it could be only one person wearing different disguises, but their mannerisms were too different. Enough time and sleeps had passed between each of the visits that he was sure they must have been more than a day apart, perhaps even two. In fact, by the time the Lady had come to him Tom had been sure his allotted last week of life was about to end.

Then the Lady had appeared in the middle of the room, disappeared after mere minutes and came back again after an awfully short time. It couldn’t have been longer than twelve hours, Tom decided. He’d only slept and eaten once between her visits. After that, at least one meal every three had been brought to him by someone instead of just magically appearing on his bedside table – six people after the Lady’s second visit, two of them women, and one of the men had come two days in a row. Accounting for all of that, Tom was sure he’d been imprisoned for at least ten days – most likely two weeks.

And he was still alive.

He decided to ask why. It wasn’t as though he had anything left to lose, not anymore, and his pride wasn’t quite as big as it had been at the start of his stay – and it did help that today’s guard, one of the endless brood of red-haired Weasley, looked more nervous than Tom himself felt.

He kept quiet as the man walked in and waited for the metal door to seal itself with a loud _thud_ , then walked slowly over to Tom and handed him a light wooden tray. Tom picked it up and the man took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. His hands were shaking lightly.

“Hey, Weasley –” Tom began, voice coming out in a croak. How long had it been since the last time he’d used it? A week at least, if not more. He cleared his throat loudly, and the other man flinched. “Tell me,” he resumed. “Why wasn’t my arse hauled in front of the Wizengamot yet?”

He didn’t say anything. Tom repressed a sigh – he should have known it wouldn’t have been so easy.

“They told me I was to be tried days ago,” he explained, his voice softening. He was confident he could do this; it had worked on a wide array of authority figures all through his life, this particular Weasley included – he had been Head Boy during Tom’s second year, and like butter in his hands. “I just want to know… how much time I have left,” he forced out a chuckle, hiding his distaste at having to show so much vulnerability. It felt oddly demeaning that he didn’t really  have to lie. “Was the trial moved? How long has it been?”

The man’s eyes softened the barest amount, and Tom wondered what he might have been thinking. He shifted slightly, trying not to make it obvious, and sagged his shoulders a little bit so that he would look shorter. He could picture himself – pale, tired, wide-eyed. And _young._ A school-aged boy, not even eighteen yet. Far too young to be put to death.

“Eat your food,” Weasley said, eventually. “That’s all I can tell you.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed and he straightened up, no longer bothering to try and look like a victim. “But I –” 

“Eat your food, Riddle,” he repeated, with the smallest hint of emotion on his name that let Tom strangely relieved – it was oddly comforted to know that there were _people_ outside those walls, people with lives, who would remember who he was; blood-traitors though they may be. As much as he hated his name, being remembered by it was better than oblivion.

_It’s not fair_ , the thought, words cutting at him with the sharpness of knives. _It wasn’t supposed to end this way_.

“Eat your food or I’m taking it away,” Weasley repeated again. “And you should keep in mind that the Lady does as the Lady wishes. If you are still alive, it’s because such is her will.”

He ate rather quickly after that, feeling a spark of anger burn inside him again after so long.  

In retrospect, Tom should have known that the Lady would hear of what happened; should have imagined that she would taunt him for it. It hadn’t seemed important at the moment – after days of absolute isolation, he’d been sure he would go crazy if they’d kept him guessing much longer. Percy Weasley’s words hadn’t told him much of anything, besides assuring him that he hadn’t simply been thrown in a cell to rot until the day someone would finally deign to feed him to the Dementors; they hadn’t forgotten about him, not yet. There was a _plan –_ and, with a plan, albeit one where he was an unwilling pawn, there was still a chance he might end up better off than when he’d started.

“So, Tom,” the Lady began, bursting into the room in a whirlwind of woody scent and flowing robes. She stared at him, tapping delicately with one finger on her painted lower lip. “I have it on good account that you’ve started making inquiries about your foreseeable future.”

Then she frowned at him and pointed one hand in his direction, and suddenly his cot felt like it was burning, making him jump to his feet.

“Stand up, will you?” she added, unnecessarily.

Tom said nothing, and stared.

Unlike the other times he’d seen her, today she was garbed in proper wizarding attire, wearing a long azure dress with a darker blue robe opened over it. Her hair – which she wore extremely short, in defiance to all their customs and traditions – had been styled with a long sash that went around her head like a band, tied on one side with the ends flowing down up to her elbow, and whatever it was she’d put on her face made her look almost ethereal and very, very dramatic. Had she been anyone else, he might have enjoyed looking at her.

She noticed him staring, and gave an particularly unladylike snort. “I know,” she said. “Dreadfully unpractical, is it? But we had a session of the Wizengamot this morning and, of course, you have to give the crowds what they want…”

She was baiting him, as always.

As always, he had no other choice.

He took it.

“What kind of session?” he asked, evenly.

She conjured herself a seat –different from the other times, a fauteuil in what looked like leather – and dropped on it, looking at her nails. They were done in the same deep red as her lips, and cut short.

“You’ll like this,” she told him. “We had a trial for your mate, Nott.”

Tom found himself nodding at her words, trying to think. “Right.”

She offered no more and he wasn’t sure he should ask – surely there was nothing he could do, locked up as he was; and while information on Theo Nott’s fate might have helped him shed some light on his own nebulous future, what good would that do? He’d had enough panic attacks in the past few days to last him a lifetime, and he doubted humiliating himself in whatever way the Lady would choose before she’d allowed him to learn more was worth the unlikely hope that the news would be good.

“That is why I couldn’t come visit sooner, obviously.” Her voice shook him from his thoughts. “I’m sure you’ll understand. However, I’ve been told you have been asking questions, so let’s sort that out. I _really_ want to go to sleep.”

He wondered how she could have got as far as she did being so bloody idiotic as to admit weakness in front of an enemy.

“Alright,” Tom said, bracing himself for the answer. “What will you do with me? I know I was supposed to be tried a week ago.”

“Bit more than a week, actually,” she corrected him. “But do go on.”

There was a long pause.

“Oh, that was it?” the Lady asked, blinking exaggeratedly in mock surprise. “So, you are wondering why is that you are alive and well and wasting away in this depressing hole of a room instead of screaming your lungs out in Azkaban, am I right?”

When he said nothing, she stood up again, walking right into his face. “Look, Tom, I’m making a bloody splendid gesture of civility by keeping you here, especially considering that your people certainly wouldn’t have extended me the same courtesy in the unlikely chance of my defeat.” She was so close that he could feel her warm breath over his chin, a faint scent of wine.

“So if you want me to keep being nice and not toss you into a real prison, you’re going to have to answer to me when I ask you a question. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” she said. “Tell me, Tom Riddle, what are you thinking right now?”

“I’m thinking how much I’d love to break your neck.” It was the most sincere thing he could ever remember saying to anyone. She laughed.

“As long as we understand each other.” She moved away, walking back to her stuffed armchair, and the sight made Tom shift his weight around a bit, trying not to make obvious that he was getting uncomfortable standing like that.

“If you could tell me why I’m still alive and well and here,” he said then. “I’d appreciate that. Then you could go to sleep, and away from here.”

“Well,” she began. She spread her legs a bit under her dress, and leaned over with her elbows on her knees, chin resting on her joined hands. “It’s pretty simple, actually. Everyone’s been telling me that you’re quite brilliant, despite the awful company you keep. I’m easily bored. You get to live a bit longer.”

He tried to make some sense out of her words. The obvious meaning – that she was looking for a distraction and wanted him to _entertain_ her, somehow – was just as obviously a lie, and downright demeaning as well.

The only plausible explanation was that she thought she needed something from him – some secret of Abraxas she hadn’t managed to obtain from the man, maybe? Perhaps she thought he would start spilling secrets out of gratitude for not being in Azkaban. Not that he ever would, but it could be a while before she realized it.

He did not even for a moment stop to consider that she might want to turn him to her side. That would be a complete absurdity, of course, and not even a ghost of a thought worth considering.

“I see you’re having trouble believing me,” the Lady said. “There’s nothing to be weary of. I’ll come visit you every once in a while, and if you cooperate you may even get something out of it. Of course you’ll have to be tried at some point, that’s the law, but there’s no reason why that can’t be in a few months, when the spirits have calmed down.”

And then – because he was _sure_ that bloody woman purposely calculated her every phrase to be as offensive as possible – she added. “I could even be persuaded to pay for your defence, if you’re good. Call it goodwill. God only knows you couldn’t possibly afford anything decent otherwise.”

 “What do I get out of it?” Tom asked, focusing on the question instead of the anger he’d felt at her words. “You said I can get something out of it.”

“If you’re nice and cooperative,” she said, tilting her chin. “Absolutely. That includes manners.”

“What do I get?” he repeated, hastily.

She snarled up at him. “First of all, this attitude won’t get you a thing, so keep that in mind. Second – Tom, I hate I have to keep pointing this out to you, but you and your elitist friends tried to kill me. We fought, I won, you lost. You’re a dead man, darling, and that could be tomorrow if you keep trying my patience. If you want to change that off that smelly shirt you’re wearing, or take a bloody bath, or even be allowed to turn those lights off anywhere in the near future, you’ll start behaving and stop being such a prat.”

Her smile turned sickening sweet. “ _That_ is what you get. If you’re good. Imagine, I could even manage to get you a room with a toilet at some point. New clothes. A book or two. ”

He clenched his hands into fists, and consciously unclenched them again. Something was twitching on his jaw, and he breathed out with deliberate calm, meeting her haughty gaze.

“Fine.”

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t play a part when he wanted to. It wasn’t as if he actually believed that rubbish about her providing him with a legal defence, as she’d put it – but it was an unquestionable truth that if he were brought in front of the Wizengamot right now, they’d be out for his blood. In a few months, hopefully, he’d be able to talk his way to a better deal. If pretending to go along with her stupid games could actually buy him some precious time, he would do it.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” she said. “I love it when that happens.”

She stood up, and it was obvious she was about to leave.

“Wait.” Tom called.

The Lady stopped, eyebrows raised in his direction. “What is it?”

“In the spirit of cooperation and everything,” he asked. “Can I have a watch?”

“Of course not,” she replied immediately. “Don’t be stupid. We’re nowhere near that point yet, and giving you a watch would ruin all the effort I’ve been putting in the irregular meal times and the lights that never go out.”

Tom hadn’t been expecting such an honest answer and he blinked, staring idly as she vanished her seat with a flowery wave of her hand, then turned to look at him one last time.

“Is that all?” she asked. “Because I do really want to go to sleep now.”

Did that mean it was night outside? He tried once again to calculate what day it was. More than two weeks, the Lady had said – but less than a month, surely? Unless she’d lied to him.

“No,” he said, suddenly. “Actually – could I have something to write with?” He didn’t bother asking for ink and parchment, which he knew he would not get either ways, but if he had only a piece of chalk or _anything_ , really, to mark the walls with…

The Lady nodded. “That I can do,” she said, and handed him something that looked like a short black tube.

Tom turned it around in his hand, and realized that she’d given him a Muggle marking pen, the kind that stained fingers and took an eternity to dry and, unlike regular ink, had an awful smell to boot. He hadn’t seen one in years.

He raised his head just in time to see the mischievous gleam in her eyes. “That’s called a permanent marker, Tom,” she told him. “But then again, I’m sure you remember that from your younger years.”

This time around instead of disappearing from the middle of the room she opened the door and walked through, not bothering to look back.

He twirled the pen in his hand, absent-mindedly, and deliberately avoided to think about whatever might have happened to Theo Nott.


End file.
